Stories of Ansalon from the view of Hilgrid.

Astinus says 'Enter the main library here to view only the author list.'
Astinus gently places a brief catalogue on the table in front of you.
You note the spine bears the word 'Hilgrid' scribed in faded orange ink.

Author: Hilgrid
Date: Sun Mar 19 18:11:58 2017
Subject Change Is Good

Hilgrid stood on the edge of the cliff, staring out at the stormy sea. The
spring tempest that was brewing in the distance would spell disaster for
any boats unfortunate enough to be caught out there, among the
melting chunks of ice. Soon the coast would be lashed with needles of
icy rain. The rest of the fishing party had retreated inside skin tents,
their wooden skiffs safely fastened to the jetty at the shore. Hilgrid
wanted to climb to the top of the cliff before the rocks became
hazardously slick.
The changing of the seasons always brought violent storms. The storm
would bring destruction to those foolish enough to disrespect the
strength of the sea, but it would also bring great schools of fish close to
the shore. Catches would be bountiful for the coming days -- plenty to
eat, and enough excess to trade with the plainsmen in Rigitt for the
goods they couldn't make themselves. She touched the turtle shell she
wore at her waist, saying a prayer of thanks to Zebyr Jotun. Change
was good.
She turned her face to the sky and relished the feeling of the frigid wind
in her face. The last cleric in her tribe had worshipped the Fisher God.
In fact, most of the clerics in her tribe's history had done so. There
were those that opposed her nomination for the position. A greater
number, though, had placed their faith in her, hoping that her influence
would protect them from the raging storms that seemed to be getting
stronger every year. They'd lost many fishermen and women, young
people, to the sea. Old Havard's appeals to Habbakuk were apparently
ineffective. The people began to see him as a charlatan, and his god
as a weak one. When he died, they turned to Hilgrid, and to Zebyr
Jotun. Times were changing, and change was good.
She could feel the approaching storms in her blood. Silly, cowardly old
Havard. His fear when a storm approached had been palpable as he
begged Habbakuk to make the storm stop and to keep his people safe.
Hilgrid felt no fear, only exhilaration. She made no such demands from
Zebyr Jotun. It was Hilgrid's job to keep her tribe safe, not the
goddess'. Instead, she thanked Her for the gift, and praised Her for Her
might.
Of course, sometimes the sea demanded a sacrifice, too. But every
small community has its ne'er-do-wells. There are always people who
can disappear while the rest of the village looks the other way.
Pilferers, brawlers, troublemakers...well, they might not be informed of
an impending storm as quickly as everyone else.
In a community as small as theirs, though, you tended to run out of
expendable members. The threat of being swallowed up by the sea
maintained law and order a little too well. No one had been given to the
sea for some time now, and the thought weighed on Hilgrid's mind that
it was only a matter of time before the Goddess simply took what she
was owed.
She turned around and began to head down the path leading back to
the shore. Hard pellets of ice were beginning to sting her face. In the
distance, one of the great white dragons was landing at its Dragonarmy
encampment. She sneered and spat on the ground.
Many in the tribe praised their Highmaster Nestos. He'd brought peace,
they said. Some of the younger men and women in the tribe were even
talking about going to join them. They didn't remember what it was like
before. Hilgrid remembered. It was easy to bring peace when you'd
brought chaos first. Perhaps this Highlord was keeping a rein on his
men's more bloodthirsty impulses for now, but that wouldn't last. And
an occupier was still an occupier, no matter how nicely he did it.
Perhaps one day some bumbling, inexperienced soldier would wander a
little too far from his camp and disappear...and Zebyr Jotun would be
appeased.
But that was a project for another day. For now, she crawled into her tent,
tied the flaps shut, and prepared to wait out the storm.

He was a boy, really. He stood out a mile away on the tundra -- taller than
a spear shaft and just as skinny -- but when Hilgrid came closer to his
body, she could see that his face was smooth, apart from an angry crop of
pimples on his forehead. Were the Dragonarmies so desperate for men
that they were resorting to kidnapping? A red stain was spreading on his
pristine uniform. His eyes were wide and glassy, staring forward into
nothingness, but when she pulled the javelin out of his chest, she saw his
eyes twitch, and when she looked again, the boy was looking back at her.
A shiver ran through her, starting in her chest and sending goosebumps
along the skin of her arms. Perhaps Zebyr Jotun would appreciate the
sacrifice more if it was still alive.
As it turned out, soldiers went astray all the time, especially when the
weather was bad -- the fog and the unexpected, furious snow flurries of
spring in Icereach meant peril for anyone who came here as an outsider.
All she had to do was follow the patrols at a safe distance, and wait for one
or two of them to be separated from the group. For someone who had
stalked ice bears across the tundra since she was a youth, it was child's
play.
She hoisted him onto her broad shoulders. She'd caught fish that weighed
more than him. Still, it was a long way back to the beach, and she took an
indirect route to avoid passing through the encampment. She carried him
to the spot where the waves crashed and roared against the jagged rocks
of a sea cave entrance.
"Great Zebyr Jotun, may the blood of this youth strengthen you. May his
soul feed your fury. May his flesh fatten your creation. Accept this gift from
the Fallowfields Clan, and in return, may you protect us and strike out
against our enemies." At the conclusion of the prayer, she tossed his body
into the sea. She looked away before it was dashed against the rocks, and
hiked back towards the camp, feeling blessed by the true mistress of the
seas.

The Storytellers of Ansalon, The DragonLance MUD

Astinus points to the massive wall of books behind him and bids you to make a selection.